We slide into the back row just as the bridal procession begins. Magnolia smooths her dress. I button my jacket. Her mother, seated three rows ahead, turns and delivers a glare that could strip paint off a warship.
Magnolia smiles sweetly. I nod once.
The bride appears at the end of the aisle. White dress. Crystal crown. Trembling bouquet. The guests rise. The officiant, a silver-haired elf who sounded like aged brandy, raises his hands over the altar where the magical binding runes glow soft gold in the grass.
My eyes sweep the perimeter. Old habit. Exits, threats, sight lines.
Movement.
Behind the altar. Low. Crouched behind the dense bank of hydrangeas.
Mark.
He holds something in his right hand. Small. Bright. A dagger, its blade pulsing with a sick green light that has no business being anywhere near a binding circle. He inches forward on his knees, the glowing blade angled toward the base rune, the anchor that holds the entire matrimonial spell together.
My hand closes around the armrest of my chair. The wood cracks.
Magnolia's fingers grip my thigh. Her whisper cuts through the music.
"Is that a disruption blade?"
"Yes."
"He's going to shatter the binding."
"Not while I'm breathing."
CHAPTER 13
MAGNOLIA
The string quartet hits a high, trembling note.
I'm already out of my chair.
Heels on grass is a nightmare. Every step sinks two inches into the manicured lawn. The aisle stretches ahead, white runner gleaming, two hundred heads turned toward the bride who hasn't yet reached the altar. Nobody is watching me. Nobody is watching the man crouched behind the hydrangeas with a blade that pulses like a diseased heartbeat.
My right heel catches. Snaps clean off.
I kick both shoes into the crowd and run barefoot.
The grass is cool and damp and perfect for sprinting. My toes dig in. The green silk dress rides up past my knees. Somewhere behind me, Dash's chair explodes into splinters, but I am closer. I am faster. I am five foot three and one hundred forty pounds of absolute fury, and Mark is not going to ruin my sister's wedding.
Not today.
Not after the cake. Not after the fire sprites and the melted mixers and the four hours of backbreaking labor and Dash whipping seventeen pounds of buttercream by hand until his arms shook.
Not after any of it.
Mark sees me coming. His head snaps up from behind the hydrangeas, the green blade hovering three inches from the anchor rune. His mouth drops open.
"Magnolia, wait?—"
I don't wait.
The altar is flanked by two enormous stone fountains, each one carved to look like two intertwined swans. Elven craftsmanship. Probably enchanted. Definitely expensive. The nearest one sits four feet behind Mark, its basin full of shimmering water that catches the afternoon light in tiny prismatic bursts.
I plant my left foot on the stone base of the altar. Push off. The binding runes flash hot gold under my toes for one brilliant instant.
